To MORTIMER, embarking for
AREWELL, my friend, the fteady gale
Invites the anxious crew away,
up
the waves, fwells ev'ry fail,
And ling'ring chides thy long delay.
And yet, methinks, with falt'ring voice,
A fomething bids me with thee ftay;
"Tis Friendship waits to give advice,
Juft hear her fpeak, and then away.
While wand'ring o'er the ftormy deep,
Refign thyfelf to Virtue's fway;
Let Rectitude thy bosom keep,
And Peace fhall gild each fleeting day.
And oft as with reverted eyes
You fighing look towards your home,
Remember, that benignant skies
Protect you wherefoe'er you roam.
Let gratitude dictate a lay
To him who brought thee o'er the main,
Where
greets thine eye,
Where fpring and autumn jointly reign.
The fplendid Vice with dauntless hand,
There flights the mask fhe puts on here;
Where thousands court her lov'd command,
And worship her with zeal fincere.
Yet when her gay, her frantic train,
Would tempt thee to the rounds they run,
Remember, that thou art a man,
That thou art Eboracia's fon.
Nor let the fenfelefs, daring proud,
Who flocks around unwary youth,
Perfuade thee to the impious croud
Who mock at GOD, and hate the truth.
But all thy days to Wisdom give,
Improve the moments as they fly:
So fhalt thou like the righteous live;
So fhalt thou like the righteous die.
Written in 1789, by a Gentleman on his way from Fort Schuyler to Albany.
HAT delight on the banks of the Mohawk to ftray,
While the fields and the meadows full bloffom'd look gay;
While the fun finking down hides his beams in the west,
And the mild face of nature in beauty is dreft!
On the wings of the breezes what freshness and health!
How the fprings of delight in emotion are felt!
As perfumes and fweet odours diffufe from the groves,
And the birds in foft melody warble their loves.
In the flow winding current reflected are seen,
The trees curtain'd with foliage and mantled with green;
Or its bottom with pebbles and fand filver'd o'er,
Where the stream, gently murmuring, plays on the fhore.
Far extended around, by no limits confin'd,
The rich harvest is fpread out and waves to the wind;
As the husbandman home flowly walks to his reft,
Joy beams from his eyes and difports in his breaft.
But a damp finks my fpirits and deadens my joy,
As the thoughts of my DELIA my fancy employ:
How can meadows delight, or the fongs of the grove,
While remote from my DELIA thus lonesome I rove?
Her prefence new life to the prospect would yield,
And her beauties would brighten the bloom of the field;
Sweeter odours would breathe from the green flow'ry vale,
Through the air fweeter melody float on the gale.
Like the region of blifs then all nature would smile,
And pleasures unmixed the fleet moments beguile;
For ever with her on these banks I could ftray,
And in rapture fee ages of time pafs away.
ODE, written in the year 1746. By COLLINS.
OW fleep the brave, who funk to rest,
H By all their country's wishes bleft!
HOW
When fpring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mold,
She there fhall dress a sweeter fod,
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unfeen their dirge is fung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To blefs the turf that wraps their clay,
And freedom fhall a while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!
The SUN-FLOWER and the Ivy. A Fable. By Dr. LANGHORNE.
AS duteous to the place of prayer.
Within the convent's lonely walls, The holy fifters ftill repair,
What time the rofy morning calls: So fair, each morn, fo full of grace, Within their little garden reared, The flower of Phoebus turn'd her face To meet the Power the lov'd and feared.
And where, along the rifing sky,
Her God in brighter glory burned, Still there her fond obfervant eye, And there her golden breast she
When calling from their weary height
On western waves his beams to rest,
Still there fhe fought the parting fight,
And there the turn'd her golden
breast.
But foon as night's invidious fhade,
Afar his lovely locks had borne,
With folded leaves and drooping head,
Full fore the griev'd, as one forlorn.
Such duty in a flower difplay'd,
The holy fisters smil'd to see,
Forgave the pagan rites it paid,
And lov'd its fond idolatry.
But painful ftill, though meant for
kind,
The praise that falls on Envy's ear! O'er the dim window's arch entwin'd, The cancker'd Ivy chanc'd to hear.
Go, fplendid fycophant! no more
Difplay the foft feductive arts!
The flattering clime of courts ex-
plore,
Nor fpoil the convent's fimple
hearts.
To me their praise more justly due,
Of longer bloom, and happier
Whom changing months unaltered view,
• And find them in my fond em-
brace.'
How well,' the modeft flower repli'd,
• Can Envy's tutored eye elude,
The obvious bounds that ftill divide
Foul Flattery from fair Gratitude.
My duteous praise each hour I pay,
For few the hours that I must live;
And give to him my little day,
Whofe grace another day may give.
When low this golden form fhall fall
And fpread with duft its parent
That duft fhall hear his genial call,
And rife, to glory rife again..
To thee, my gracious power, to thee,
My love, my heart, my life are due!
Thy goodnefs gave that life to be;
Thy goodness fhall that life renew.
Ah me! one moment from thy fight
That thus my truant-eye should
stray !
And See,' fhe cried, that fpeciousThe flower,
• Whose flattering bofom courts the
fun,
The pageant of a gilded hour,
The convent's fimple hearts hath
won!
Obfequious meannefs! ever prone
To watch the patron's turning eye;
No will, no motion of its own!
'Tis this they love, for this they
figh:
God of glory fets in night; His faithlefs flower has loft a day?'
Sore figh'd the flower, and droop'd
120
Our hearts no fears but duteous fears,
No charm but duty's charm can
Yet one lefs duteous, not less fair,
(In convents still the tale is known)
The fable heard with filent care,
But found a moral of her own.
The flower that fmil'd along the day,
And droop'd in tears at evening's
fall;
Too well the found her life difplay,
Too well her fatal lot recall.
The envious Ivy's gloomy shade,
That murder'd what it most em-
brac'd,
Too well that cruel fcene convey'd,
Which all her fairer hopes effac'd.
Her heart with filent horror fhook;
With fighs fhe fought her lonely cell:
To the dim light fhe caft one look;
And bade once more the world fare-
well.
The PASSIONS. An ODE for MUSIC. By COLLINS.
7HEN Mufic, heavenly maid,
was young,
While yet in early Greece the fung,
The Paffions oft, to hear her fhell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Poffeft beyond the Mufe's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd,
Till once, 'tis faid, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the fupporting myrtles round
They hatch'd her inftruments of
found,
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet leffons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,'
Would prove his own expreffive
power.
First Fear his hand, its fkill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the found himself had made.
Next Anger rufh'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his fecret ftings,
In one rude clafh he ftruck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the
trings.
With woeful meafures wan Defpair
Low fullen founds his grief beguil'd,
A folemn, ftrange, and mingled air,
'Twas fad by fits,by ftarts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes fo fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whifper'd promis'd pleafuré,
And bad the lovely scenes at distance
hail!
Still would her touch the ftrain prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the
And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic founds fo full of woe.
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious
heat;
And tho' fometimes, each dreary
paufe between,
Dejected Pity at his fide,
Her foul-fubduing voice applied,
Yet ftill he kept his wild unalter'd
mien,
While each ftrain'd ball of fight feem'd
bursting from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealoufy, to nought
were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy distressful state, Of differing themes the veering fong was mix'd,
And now it courted Love, now rav
ing call'd on Hate.
With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy fat retir'd,
And from her wild fequefter'd feat,
In notes by distance made more fweet,
Pour'd thro' th' mellow horn her pen-
five foul:
And dafhing foft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the found;
Thro' glades and glooms the mingled
meafure ftole,
Or o'er fome haunted streams with
Round an holy calm diffufing,
Love of peace, and lonely mufing,
In hollow murmurs died away.
But O, how alter'd was its sprightlier
tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of
healthieft hue,
Her bow across her fhoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning' dew,
Blew an infpiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,
And Sport leapt up, and feiz'd his
beechen spear.
Laft came Joy's ecstatic trial,
He with viny crown advancing,
Firft to the lively pipe his hand ad-
dreft,
But foon he faw the brifk awakening
viol,
Whofe fweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best:
They would have thought, who heard the train,
They faw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the feftal founding fhades, To fome unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kifs'd the ftrings,
Love fram'd with Mirth, a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her treffes feen, her zone
unbound,
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy
wings.
O Mufe, fphere-defcending maid,
Friend of pleafure, wisdom's aid,
Why, Goddefs, why to us deny'd ?
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre afide?
As in that lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all commanding power
Thy mimic foul, O nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native fimple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arife, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, fublime!
Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording fifter's page-
'Tis faid, and I believe the tale,
Thy humbleft reed could more prevail
Had more of ftrength, diviner rage,
Than all whichcharms this laggard age
The hunter's call to Faun and Dry- Even all at once together found
Caecilia's mingled world of found
The oak-crown'd Sifters, and their O bid our vain endeavours cease,
chafte-eyed queen,
Satyrs and fylvan boys were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
VOL. III. No. 2.
Revive the juft defigns of Greece,
Return in all thy fimple ftate!
Confirm the tales her fons relate!
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